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Wp Snne l^amiUon #ortton 

II 

(AGE ELEVEN) 


©clittatel) to JWp JJlottier 


1914 


Copyright, 1915, by 
Anne Hamilton Gordon 


I 









CHAPTER ONE. 


MR. HOLLAND. 

It was Mr. John Holland who brought the mail to 
“Mapleleaf Grove” today. 

He had lived in the city for a year and the farm 
hands considered that a great honor. He told many 
tales of the great city to everyone but Theodore Har- 
ley. Harley was the Squire who lived at “Mapleleaf 
Grove.” Everyone was in awe of Squire Harley, even 
Mr. John Holland, which was saying a great deal since 
he had never been afraid of any other man on earth. 
No one ever called Mr. Holland ‘‘John,” not even his 
sister, who lived with him. He was always spoken of 
as “Mr. Holland, who’s been to the city.” To the 
farm hands the city was a great unexplored world, 
too wonderful to be spoken of in anything but a 
whisper. 

John Holland owned a fine pair of iron gray colts. 
Today he had driven over to the station with them 
to get two bags of corn, and the postmaster had asked 
him if he was going by “Mapleleaf Grove” would he 
please leave some letters there? John had not planned 
to pass by there but he considered it an honor to be 
able to bring the letters to Squire Harley, so he prompt- 
ly replied in the affirmative. As he was riding out of 
town he stopped by at a drug store to get a soda. A 
clerk there said: 

“There is a meassge for Mr. John Holland. It is 
this: To please tell Squire Harley that Elizabeth 
Wharton is coming tomorrow and to be ready for her. ” 

John’s heart was filled with delight. The post- 
master had given him a telegram and six letters. The 
former was marked “Important” and one of the letters 


4 


THE AWAKENING 


was a special Delivery! To bring these to Squire 
Harley would be a great deal to do, he thought, and 
the telegram was “Important!^’ It must be gotten 
there at once with that mark on it! 

He finished his soda rather too hastily, and jump- 
ing into his buggy he let the eager horses have full 
rein. They did justice to their reputation. An old 
graybeard, sitting on a barrel, and smoking a corn- 
cob pipe, saw something dash by, raising a cloud of 
dust. When he had recovered enough of his scattered 
senses to breathe freely, he muttered in an awe-stricken 
tone: 

“Glory be to Peter! It must a’ been one o’ them 
there ortermobeels ! ” 

Chickens rushed from under the wheels of his buggy 
and cows ran into the field as he charged down the 
road. At last he reached the familiar lane leading into 
“Mapleleaf Grove.” This lane was all of maples. 
The road was a shady, restful spot, where the sun 
could hardly pierce. A little brook ran across it. 
Often, in autumn (the maples here were always the 
first to turn to autumn colors), the leaves fell into the 
babbling brook, and floated on with the current until 
they filled with water and sank to the bottom, or until 
some rock or rush, bending from the banks, caught 
the little leaf-boats and held them fast until the water 
rippled by and freed them once more. It was a plea- 
sant, shady spot, with an old rustic bridge a little 
further on where the water was deeper, and anyone, 
whether artistic or not, should have noticed and com- 
mented on its beauty. But Squire Harley barely 
noticed the sweet, shady nook when he traversed it. 
Perhaps, if he was not always so busy he might have 
known more about his place and the people that lived 
around him. 

John tied his horses at the gate and walked slowly 
up the short space leading to the front door. He was 
studying the letters. The telegram held his fancy, 
and he stopped to gaze in admiration at it. Then he 
went up the wooden steps and rang the bell. 

It was a lovely house, all built after the old colonial 
nodel. It was made of brick. It had rambling porches, 
and quaint turns the architect had planned when he 
built the old home. It had been built in the year 1761, 


MR. HOLLAND 


5 


long before the present owner was even born. His 
ancestors had lived in it then, and the old house held 
many a secret of olden times, when lords and ladies 
held feasts and banquets in its halls at Yuletide. 

Then one went down the wooden steps and walked 
a small distance until one came to five stone steps. 
On either side of these steps there rose a giant pine 
whose tops seemed to touch the very skies. These 
pines were as old as the house — older, perhaps. They 
had been planted by Squire Harley’s ancestors in 
long past years, but still were as strong and gaunt as 
ever. Today there was a slight breeze, just enough 
to make the top of each pine rustle and sway, as if 
whispering their secrets to the lovely May morning. 

A few minutes after John had rung the bell, a neat 
butler answered it. 

“I want to speak to Squire Harley,” said John, 
eyeing the man with some doubt. 

“I am afraid, sir, that he is busy, but I will see, if 
you wish, sir,” replied the butler, smiling somewhat 
at the important expression on John’s face. 

He departed, but soon came back and said: 

“ The Squire is busy, sir, but I can take the message 
if you wish.” 

Either John did not think it safe to trust the man 
with something marked ‘‘Important,” or else he 
wanted to see the Squire’s excitement at receiving a 
telegram, for he replied: 

“I would like to see him if possible.” 

“He says if it is very important you may come,” 
said the butler. John followed him through the wide, 
spacious hall, until he reached the door of the Squire’s 
library, then he knocked. 

“Come in,” said a voice. 

John entered. 

“Here are some letters I brought from the station, 
and a telegram!” 

Then the Squire, without opening the wonderful 
telegram, laid it aside. 

John had hoped he would tell him what it said, but 
Squire Harley was used to business telegrams. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

John was dumbfounded! Evidently the Squire was 


6 


THE AWAKENING 


not going to open the telegram! With a crestfallen 
air he started to leave, but remembered the clerk’s 
message. 

“At Johnson’s drug store someone had a message” — 

“Eh! What’s that?” said the Squire. He had re- 
sumed his writing, only to look up and find John still 
there. But John, trembling with fear at the Squire’s 
somewhat gruff tone, was already out of the door. 

As he started driving back to his home, his courage 
returned. 

“It beats me!” he said to himself, “it surely does! 
Out in fresh air I’m all right; I have to be called ‘Mr., ’ 
but when I’m with him, I feel as if he ought to call 
me ‘ Slave ! ’ It’s mighty queer, the way we’re all scared 
to death of him. He’s only a man after all. Yes, it’s 
queer, mighty, mighty queer!’' 


CHAPTER TWO. 


A LETTER. 

Squire Harley was a bachelor. He was the only 
occupant of “Mapleleaf Grove.” But he was never 
lonely. He did not wish for company. He stayed in 
his library and wrote business papers, signed impor- 
tant documents and read letters and business affairs 
sent him by his faithful clerk, Andrews, who was in 
the city. Sometimes at night he grew somewhat lonely, 
when he realized that he could long ago have made 
friends with Mr. Dixon, who lived half a mile away. 
He also had been a bachelor five years before. Squire 
Harley had known him well. Together they had sat 
and talked to each other by the light of the great, 
blazing wood-fire. The Squire had enjoyed these talks, 
but one day Mr. Dixon’s engagement was announced. 
He was to be married to a young, friendless girl named 
Margaret Wentworth. Since then the Squire had never 
visited his old friend. He did not like “prattling 
women” and “bothersome children,” he declared. Mr. 
Dixon had called and invited him to meet his wife, 
but he had declined. Dixon had called again, and 
when the Squire once more declined, he said: 

“Really, Harley, you ought to follow my example. 
I understand the kind of women you despise; I have 
a hatred for that sort, too. But my wife is not that 
way. She is as sweet a woman as you ever met. She 
does not bother me when I am busy, but when my 
work is done she knows how tired I am, and harnesses 
a mare to go for a drive in the evening with me. Then, 
when we come in, she always has a nice, hot supper 
ready for me, and a steaming cup of tea. I am the 
happiest man on earth. I also understand the kind 


7 


8 


THE AWAKENING 


of ‘ bothersome children ’ you mean, but my little Rose 
is a sweet and lovable child. In the evening she sits 
on my lap and kisses me and tells me her day’s experi- 
ences, and, when her bedtime comes, my wife tucks 
her in. 

“ ‘Goodnight, daddy,’ she calls. 

“Then Margaret comes down and we sit together 
until the clock warns us that it is also our bedtime. 

“I’m telling you the truth, Harley, when I say you 
don’t know what you are missing.” 

But Squire Harley only shook his head. “It is a 
novelty to you,” he said, “and you are enjoying it 
immensely. Wait a few years, and if ymi do not change, 
your wife will.” 

Today he laid his pen down with an impatient sigh. 
Leisurely he took up the telegram. The next moment 
he gave an exclamation. Then he leaned back in his 
big easy chair. 

“I have the luck of a dog!” he exclaimed bitterly. 
“Of course I have to be her only uncle living, and it 
happens to be a girl, and — hang it all!” he cried im- 
patiently. 

For more than an hour Squire Harley paced the 
floor, at first with a very angry face, and then a thought- 
ful one. At last he sat down. A fire had been built 
and now he sat down in front of it, gazing thoughtfully 
at the flickering shadows it cast along the room, and 
at the falling embers. In all his life of business, and 
he knew a great deal about it, he had never been so 
puzzled or troubled as. he was now. Letters, telegrams, 
and often business troubles had come to his office, but 
never such a telegram as this had he received. The 
clock ticked steadily on; the fire burnt lower and lower, 
and still the Squire sat thinking, until gradually his 
eyelids closed, but he was not asleep. 

He seemed to see a picture, far different from this 
one, a deathbed. The deathbed of his sister, with the 
cold, bare room and old gray stove making the scene 
still more pathetic. A little six-year old child was 
clinging to the frail, dying mother. 

“I don’t want you to leave me alone with father; 
I’m afraid of him!” the child had sobbed. 

“My poor baby, I cannot help it. You belong to 


A LETTER 


9 


/your father now/’ she had replied. 

And then, in a kindly impulse, Squire Harley had 
said: 

“I cannot take the child while her father lives, but 
I will do all I can to help her, and when he is gone I 
will take her to live with me, and be a father to her.” 

That had been a rash thing to say, he now thought, 
but he had been young. He was sorry now, but no — 
was he? 

He could not have stood there and seen his own 
sister die with a troubled heart; he could only have 
done the one thing he had done — offer to take the 
child. 

“She died with a peaceful heart; she had nothing to 
trouble her, for her child was safe. She was too frail 
for this earth,” he said. 

Then suddenly he opened his eyes. This question 
he asked himself a thousand times: “Had he kept his 
promise and done all he could for the child while her 
father was alive?” And a thousand times he answered 
“No!” He had not once thought of her until the tele- 
gram had come, saying: 

“Elizabeth Wharton arrives Saturday af- 
ternoon, five fifteen train. The father died 
last week. Details in letter. Phillips.” 

Phillips was his lawyer. Then, for the first time, Har- 
ley remembered the letter. He got it off his desk and 
opened it. It ran thus: 

“My dear Harley: 

“I suppose you have already heard from 
my telegram that the child is coming. I am 
therefore sending you this letter of particu- 
lars. The father died last week. I knew he 
would not last long after he went to the bad. 

The physician said that he was a strong man, 
but completely broken down by so much dis- 
sipation. You had already arranged with me 
to take Elizabeth when this happened, so I 
am sending her to you. 

“Harley, that young Sidney Wharton, her 
father, was a nice young fellow once; I knew 
him well. But finally he got into the habit of 
intoxication. His father had been a fine old 
man ; he was one of my classmates, and a dear 


10 


THE AWAKENING 


friend. It is good for the old man that he died 
before his boy went to the bad. I had always 
been a sort of father to the lad, and I tell you 
I was mightily disappointed in him. His 
father would have died of shame. 

^‘They found him out in the street intoxi- 
cated and brought him home. They were rich 
then and had a lovely home. His wife was so 
shocked that I don’t believe she ever got over 
it. 

“ ‘It can’t be true! He was drugged!’ she 
cried. 

“The doctors fixed him up though, but he 
went at it again, heart and soul. Soon they 
found him again, dead drunk. So they moved 
again, into the little house you saw, and then 
she died. The child was six then. When Sid- 
ney saw he had killed his wife by shock, and 
by lack of care, he reformed. For three years 
he has been working and supporting the child. 

But lately he started again. He was found 
on the street again, taken home, and had the 
best of care, but he passed away last week. 

“You now have his whole story, Harley, 
and I hope you will feel a little more soft- 
hearted towards him. I promised his father 
to help him, and he was almost a son to me. 

I still love him. As for the child, she is as sweet 
and dear as she can be. She calls me ‘ Uncle 
Georgie’, and I am devoted to her. As an old 
friend, Harley, I advise you to love her if 
you want to gain her affection — a good thing to 
have. 

“Ever your old friend, 

George Phillips.” 

Harley leaned back in his chair. 

“He says the child’s affection is a good thing to 
have. Well, I suppose I must take her, but I am afraid 
I shall not see the child from the same point of view 
as Phillips. He always was a child-lover and I never 
was. I presume she will be bothering me all the time, 
or else asking questions. If there is one thing I de- 
test, it’s curious, inquisitive children. Well, it’s just 
my luck!” 


A LETTER 


11 


For a long time Harley sat gazing thoughtfully at 
the dying embers, until the fire went out and the light 
vanished from the western sky; then he slowly rose, 
walked into the dining room, and telling Jim, the col- 
ored butler, to serve dinner, he sat down. 

‘^This is my last peaceful night,” he said. 


CHAPTER THREE. 


THE ARRIVAL. 

The next morning Squire Harley rose early. He 
had not slept much that night — the thought of his 
niece’s arrival had made him restless. He went down- 
stairs, but did not have the heart and energy to go to 
work. He never inspected his grounds and wonderful 
wheat and corn fields; he would not have known the 
way there. He left it all to John Holland. But to- 
day he wandered down to the road, where the little 
brook was babbling along. For the first time he no- 
ticed the beauty of the spot, and sat down to rest in 
the shade of an old oak tree. He gazed at the brook. 
It seemed to him to be so happy; everything was 
happy but himself, from the birds singing merrily in 
the tree-tops to the corn swaying and rustling with the 
slight breeze, this lovely May morning. How could he 
help being happy, though, with the birds hopping near 
him, and all the world calling him to join in its gladness? 

The horses were dying for exercise, especially Dixie, 
his own favorite; why not go for a ride? The more he 
thought of it, the more he wanted to do it. Finally 
he rose and walked slowly down to the stable. The 
air felt nice to him, the flowers coming up in the gar- 
den, and old Uncle Sam plowing in the meadow seemed 
somewhat a novelty. Still he liked it, and liked it im- 
mensely, and already the fresh air had done him good. 

“Good morning,” he said to Sam as he passed him 
by. He did not know his name, although Sam had 
worked faithfully with him for twenty-five years. 

“ ’Deed it’s marsa,” said Sam to himself. Aloud he 
said : 

“Good mornin’, Marsa Harley. I’se mighty glad to 


12 


THE ARRIVAL 


13 


see you out.” 

Putting his hat back on his head he resumed his 
work. 

When Harley reached the stable there was no one 
there to saddle the horse. 

“It was a silly idea anyway for me to get a sudden 
desire to ride,” he said. 

He did not want to call Uncle Sam, but he still 
wanted to ride, although he himself had said he was 
foohsh. There was only one thing to do, that was to 
saddle Dixie himself. 

In his young days Squire Harley had loved to ride. 
He had always saddled his own horses, and had not 
forgotten how to, yet. Soon Dixie was saddled, and, 
having been free to do whatever he chose before, he 
objected to being mounted. He pranced and tossed 
his head, but Squire Harley had a firm hand and gentle 
voice, and soon Dixie was going at a steady pace. 

John Holland, riding along on his iron-gray colt, saw 
him in the distance. 

“I’ll be doggoned,” he said. “I wonder if it is he 
sure enough.” 

Soon he had ridden up to him. 

“Good morning, Mr. Holland,” said Squire Harley. 

“Good morning, sir,” replied Holland. “I rode up 
to tell you that Jake and Silas Smith say they have got 
to go along back to Kentucky. Their mother’s right 
sic£ I came over to ask you if I could hire two friends 
o’ mine. They’re dandy workers, everybody wants 
’em, but I been tellin’ ’em we might be needin’ them 
too, and they just about gave up, when I told them 
that Silas and Jake were goin’ and we’d be a-needin’ 
’em, so I want to ask you if I could?” 

“Certainly,” replied Squire Harley. 

“An’ I wanted to ask you about the corn. It’s goin’ 
to be fine all over the county, but right in ‘ Mapleleaf 
Grove’ it’s goin’ to be the best.” 

John Holland was getting friendly now. He was 
not scared any more. 

“An’ there’s a new price made for it. You can get 
$1.00 a bushel. I jes’ thought I’d let you know.” 

“Thank you,” said the Squire. “I leave it to you 
to sell it at the reasonable price. I have always trusted 
you, and you have always been honest; you are a good 


14 


THE AWAKENING 


worker.” 

Thank you, sir, thank you,” said John, taking off 
his straw hat and a pleased smile resting on his face. 
“I have always tried to do my best, sir, for your land 
is valuable.” 

Little did Squire Harley care how many thousands 
of people would have bought the house and grounds 
the minute he offered it at any price. Perhaps if he 
went around more, helped in the work, or directed the 
workers, he would have known more of its value. As 
it was he left it all to John Holland. 

“Goodbye, sir,” said John, as he put on his hat 
again, “Fve got to attend to some calves that Fm 
trading off to a farmer that lives near here.” 

“Goodbye,” said the Squire. 

John Holland rode away, but said in a pleased, tri- 
umphant tone, “I warn’t a bit scared, that time. Fm 
dead sure it was his house that made me nervous be- 
fore, especially them there portraits with those old 
men in wigs just starin’ at me as if they was angry.” 

Squire Harley rode on, whistling a merry tune. Per- 
haps he was just thinking how much more pleasant 
the out-door world was than his office. Dixie, too, 
seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, for he soon 
broke into a brisk canter. Two little darkies crossing<^ 
the road with tin buckets full of early strawberries, 
looked up in surprise as the horse galloped by. One 
rolled her eyes around. 

“ ’Deed, Martha, Fse sho’ dat wor marsa we saw!” 
she exclaimed. 

“Oh, hush up, chile’. Co’se it ain’ him. Did you 
evah see him out sence las’ spring, jes’ ’bout three 
yeahs ’go?” 

“But, Martha, Fse sho it wor him? Deed it wor, 
a- whistlin’ a toon, an’ he looked kine o’ happy?” 

“Happy nothin’, Mayry, he ain’ nuvah happy? Ef 
he ain’ a-grumblin’ fer one thing, ’t am anuthah. He 
gits ev’ything he wants, cyages, ho’ses, ev’ything, but 
dey’s one thing he don’ git, an’ I ruther have dat one 
thing dan all de money in de kingdom.” 

“What am de thing?” 

“Happiness. I ain’ nuvah seen him happy. All de 
folks is scyad o’ him, ’case he’s always cross an’ stern 
lookin’. Mebby he’s troubles o’ his own, but in comp’ny 


THE ARRIVAL 


15 


he ought ter be able ter muster up a chyaful face an’ a 
smile ev’y now an’ thin.” 

At lunch time Squire Harley rode back somewhat re- 
luctantly. He did not feel quite as happy when he 
remembered that he must meet his niece that after- 
noon. No, it spoiled his pleasure and depressed his 
spirits somewhat at lunch. Still, the gallop and the 
fresh air were yet in his mind, and he resolved to ride 
again. Then, after lunch he took a chair and went out 
under the trees, which he never did, to read. 

“The house is hot,” he said, as an excuse. 

The novel was interesting; still, at half-past four he 
rose. Probably he had not been reading much, for he 
rose so promptly. He went and called the groom. 

“Harness the horses,” he said. 

The groom obeyed and soon Squire Harley saw the 
carriage drive up the row of maples. The driver 
alighted, and coming up to the Squire, asked if he had 
anything he wanted done at the station. Yes, 
Harley remembered several important things he had 
to do. He sat in thought for a moment, then said to 
the surprised groom: 

“You may have the rest of the day off. I have some 
things I must attend to at the station.” 

The groom said “Thank you, sir,” politely, taking 
off his hat. 

The Squire jumped lightly into the runabout. He 
was not as old as people pictured him; he was but 
thirty-five. But his brow was wrinkled by trouble, 
and he had a careworn face. He was always somewhat 
pale, perhaps by not getting enough of Dame Nature’s 
fresh air, which she dealt freely to all the world. Per- 
haps he had reahzed that on his short ride that morn- 
ing and that was the reason he had let the groom go 
free and had driven over himself, or perhaps he had 
not really had very important business this bright 
May morning, but that he wanted to be the first one 
to see his niece. 

He drove around to Johnson’s drug store. He had 
always dealt with these people, and he was a good cus- 
tomer; still, he hardly knew them by sight. He went 
in. Mr. Johnson knew him at once, and said politely: 

“Good evening. Squire Harley.” 


16 


THE AWAKENING 


“Good evening,” responded the Squire. 

“Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” the mana- 
ger questioned. 

Just then Mr. Johnson was called away to the ’phone 
and sent a young clerk in his stead. He knew Squire 
Harley at once, but he was a fearless young fellow and 
was not afraid. 

“You goin’ to meet the little gal that’s a-comin’ on 
the five o’clock train, ain’t you?” he asked. 

Harley was astonished. Not knowing how much in- 
terest he afforded the county, and little guessing that 
news about him spread like wildfire, he could not im- 
agine how the clerk could know of his private affairs. 
He said to the clerk: 

“When and how did you learn this?” 

“Why, a message come for you an’ it said that Eliza- 
beth Wharton was cornin’ today and to be ready for 
her, so I thought I’d let you know right away, so I 
told John Holland to take the message. ” 

“When was this,” asked the Squire. 

“Oh, this was yesterday,” replied the clerk. 

“I remember now. He brought me some letters 
and started to say something but he never finished it. ” 

“I suppose he was skeered. Most o’ the folks are 
skeered o’ you ’round here.” 

If a light smile rested on Squire Harley’s lips it onl}^ 
stayed for a moment, for he said: 

“It is good for him that I got a telegram, else I 
would not have known. ” 

His package being tied up the Squire departed. 
The clerk, still standing idle, murmured: 

“Poor little kid. Ef these here great big men are 
skeered, what kin a little gal do? An’ he hates women 
and kids like pi’son, too!” 

The same thought passed through the Squire’s 
brain, strange as it may seem, only not placed quite 
the same way. 

“All the folks ’round here are skeered o’ you,” kept 
running through his brain. Like the clerk, he thought : 

“If the men are, what chance has a little girl? Still, 
I am glad she is going to fear me, for then she will obey 
me also.” 

Still he mused. “I did not know folks were ^scared 
of me.’ I suppose I am stern looking, but do I act 


THE ARRIVAL 


17 


sternly?’’ 

He asked himself this a thousand times. “I used to 
take care of Sister, and give her all she ever asked for, ” 
he said in self-defense. 

Yes, this was true, to his knowledge. He had given 
her all she wanted to the furthest extent he could, yet, 
though he did not know it, there was one thing he had 
not given her, a thing which she desired more than 
money or clothes. He thought she had all she wanted, 
but this was not so. At night he used to sit writing, 
while she, in her fine clothes and luxurious home, sat 
gazing into the fire with a longing face. She wanted 
to rise up, run over to his desk and fling her arms 
around his neck, but he was too busy, and had asked 
her to leave him alone. Little had he guessed that she 
wanted to love and be loved in return. No, he did 
not know that the frail little sister longed for love, 
longed with a great, gnawing hunger. He did not 
know her well enough. He let her choose her clothes 
and he paid for whatever she needed. He seldom saw 
her long enough to talk to her and hardly ever had a 
real conversation. 

Now he mused. “No, ” he said, he had not done all 
he could for her, but she had been a disappointment to 
him. He had not thought that she would marry im- 
prudently; in fact, he had not thought of her marrying 
at all. He had not noticed the frightened expression 
on her face when he approached, he had not noticed 
that she grew paler each day, but that she had a happy 
light in her eyes. No, it had been a busy time, and he 
had hardly seen her at all. He did not know that daily 
she refused to ride in the carriage, and begged of her 
maid that she wanted to walk alone. Oh, but how 
happy she had been! She was being loved. She was 
already making plans and building castles in the air 
for the Land of the Future. Then she told her brother 
of her engagement and he had not been angry, as she 
feared. “I trust my sister to select a decent man; she 
knows what she wants.” He had never dreamed that 
at night he would miss her. He had business affairs 
and seldom saw her anyway. She looked happy, she 
was happy and Squire Harley had wanted her to be, 
so he was too. But on the nights that were free he 
missed her, oh, how he missed her! He would pace the 


18 


THE AWAKENING 


floor, up and down, missing her all the time. But he 
was willing to sacrifice himself for her, as he loved her 
and she was happy. 

He roused himself from his reveries by hearing the 
whistle of the train blowing and by seeing the great, 
black monster come slowly up the track. His niece 
was on it ; he must meet her. He drove up to the plat- 
form, but seeing a man he knew, he stopped and talked 
to him for a few minutes. When he finished talking 
the train had already been in five minutes. Slowly he 
drove up to where it lay resting from the long journey 
it had just taken, but ready to start on another directly. 
The people had all dispersed to their different destina- 
tions, the station looked somewhat deserted, though a 
porter would pass every now and then with suit cases 
and bags on his shoulders, or a horse and carriage would 
drive slowly by. 

Harley wondered where his niece could be. He was 
looking for a pale, delicate child, resembling her mother. 
Somehow all the way over he had pictured her to be 
like his sister. Therefore, when he turned the corner 
and almost ran into a plump, rosy-cheeked little girl, 
he never dreamed it was his niece. 

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “you scared me mos’ to death! 
But I’m glad you’ve come at last. Uncle Theodore, 
’cause I’m tired o’ waiting. What made you so late. 
Uncle?” 

“Uncle?” queried Harley in a bewildered tone. 
“How do you know I’m your uncle? How do I know 
you’re my niece?” 

“ ’Cause,” said the child confidently, “I asked 
Uncle Georgie what you looked like and that’s how I 
knew you were my uncle, an’ I’m glad you are.” 

Harley did not believe he could return the compli- 
ment, but he was interested just the same and con- 
tinued to question the child. 

“Did you come all alone?” 

“Yes, uncle.” 

“Who put you on the train?” 

“Uncle Georgie.” 

“And who is he?” 

“A friend o’ your’s.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” 


THE ARRIVAL 


19 


“Can’t you be a little more definite?” 

Harley was not used to talking to children, and so 
did not use shorter and more explicit words. 

“What?” 

“Can’t you explain to me better?” 

“Why, I believe he had some business with you; yes, 
he said he was your lawyer.” 

“George Phillips! Ah, yes, now I remember indeed 
that he said you called him Uncle Georgie.” 

“Yes, an’ I didn’t want to leave him, but he said 
he’d come down soon an’ see me.” 

“Good,” replied the Squire. 

“ He gave me candy mos’ ev’ry day, an’ I asked him 
if you would an’ he said, maybe, if I was good.” 

“Hu’um.” 

They had climbed into the carriage now. “I can 
prove I’m your niece” she exclaimed suddenly, “look 
here!” 

She held up her suit case triumphantly, on which 
was marked “Elizabeth Wharton.” 

“Aha,” said the Squire, with a slight smile. 

There was silence for a short while, a rather un- 
comfortable silence while neither knew what to say, 
but the child broke it by exclaiming: 

“Don’t you love to look around you all the time at 
evenin’ an’ watch the cows cornin’ home from milkin’ 
an’ hear the bells o’ the sheep jinglin’ by?” 

Squire Harley replied that he had never tried it but 
that she seemed to enjoy it. 

“Never tried it!” she exclaimed. “My, but I’d do 
it every night if I lived here!” 

As Harley did not reply to this the child still rambled 
on. 

“Don’t you love to hear the crickets singing at this 
time o’ night?” I always think they’re saying, ‘Good- 
night, goodnight!’ to the whole world, don’t you? 
They aren’t quite like birds. Birds just sing their little 
goodnight song separately, like we do, but crickets all 
sing together just like a choir in a church. I love to 
hear the birds too, but it’s really music when the crickets 
sing, and they don’t know it.” 

The sun was sinking behind the mountains, and it 
was growing cold, so Squire Harley hurried the horses 
on, and the house was soon in sight. The child gave 


20 


THE AWAKENING 


one exclamation of delight, and then sat staring at it 
in rapture. They drove up the row of stately old maples 
that nodded and tossed in the breeze, as if to say, “A 
newcomer who may soften his heart. At last the wel- 
come light was cast on the carriage and the groom took 
the horses away. As he did so he cast a curious look 
at the child, but if Squire Harley noticed it he spoke 
not a word. And then they entered the house where 
Elizabeth was to live. It was looking more cheerful 
than ever before, perhaps. In the great open fireplace 
burned such a log fire that it filled the room with light 
and warmth. The lamps were lit and into the dining 
room one could see a delicious supper laid out for two. 
The child was so delighted that she could hardly say a 
word, but stood looking around her in absolute joy. 
How different from the poor little home which she had 
lived in. Once she used to live in a big lovely house, 
but she could not remember that very well now. She 
thought she had never seen such a wonderful house in 
all her life. She threw her things down on a chair, 
followed Harley into the dining room and ate her sup- 
per, which she enjoyed to the utmost. Then old Mi- 
randa, who had been her mother’s and Squire Har- 
ley’s nurse, brought in a glass of fresh, white milk. 
Oh, how good it tasted to the tired but happy child! 
Then she went over to her uncle. 

“Goodnight,” she said in a joyful little voice. 
“I’m so happy I can’t ’splain, but I’m tired. I’m go- 
in’ right up to my bed. ” She leaned her head content- 
edly against her uncle’s shoulder. “Goodnight,” she 
cooed, “goodnight. Uncle Teddy.” 

No one had ever called Theodore Harley “Teddy,” 
not even this child’s mother. At first he was aghast, 
but he liked it, oh, how he liked it! 

“Goodnight, Elizabeth,” he said, somewhat ten- 
derly. 

“Oh, dear,” she exclaimed, “you mustn’t call me 
that. It’s too long. Betty is my name. ” 

“Goodnight, Betty,” he said. 

She kissed him and then ran upstairs. 

Miranda had a little white bed all ready for her and 
when the child learned that it had been her mother’s 
when she was little, she was delighted. 

“I’m so glad I’m going to sleep in it!” she exclaimed. 


THE ARRIVAL 


21 


unconsciously bringing a pathetic note in her voice, 
“because it’ll make me think of mother.” 

The old mammy helped Betty to undress, and she 
was soon in bed and fast asleep. 

Downstairs, her uncle meditated. The light kiss 
she had given him still rested on his forehead and he 
still heard the childish voice saving, “Goodnight, 
Uncle Teddy/’ 

And upstairs in her little bed, Betty dreamed of 
what the future held for her; all happy dreams, with 
no thoughts of trouble in the future, only happy dreams. 
She little guessed that she was the cause of her uncle’s 
worried meditations downstairs. 

Harley was thinking about her. Her little voice 
seemed like music in his ears; seemed to cheer the whole 
house and fill it with sunshine. He had not heard baby 
voices for such a long time. He thought of what she 
had said in the carriage and it now impressed him more 
than she had thought. She had meant it for the crickets 
but he meant it for the sound of her voice. “ It’s really 
music when the crickets sing and they don’t know it.” 
So it was with Betty. She was putting music in his 
heart, and a strange, new feeling in his soul — a feeling 
of love. She had changed a man from what he had 
been all his life to a better and more thoughtful man 
in the future, and she was innocent of the act. Ah, 
Betty, by your childish innocence you have already 
taught one lesson, persevere and you may teach others. 


CHAPTER FOUR. 


THE FIRST SHOCK. 

The next morning when Betty awakened, the sun 
was streaming in her window and sending dancing 
little rays, lighting up the tall silver candlesticks and 
glass vase on her mantlepiece. Betty jumped up out 
of bed and looked at the bright world outside, busy, 
though it was but little after six. The sun seemed to 
be calling her out into the world, for had it not awak- 
ened her for that purpose? And it did not take much 
persuasion to make Betty obey, for one glance at the 
busy birds and butterflies made her so eager to join 
them that she immediately began dressing and was 
soon ready, not looking quite as neat as usual. But 
she was so eager to get out in the air and romp in 
freedom, unlike the city impossibilities, for poor little 
Betty had never seen the real country before! Ah, 
you little children who have so much to be thankful 
for, stop but a moment to think of those who have 
never shared any of the joys and pleasures you have 
always had, who have never seen the country before, 
or the grass, or the trees and flowers! 

True, Betty had seen pictures of the country, and 
had pictured to herself what it must look like, and had 
spent many an idle hour making up day dreams and 
fancies for the future. She had already planned that 
when she grew up she would buy a great large house 
in the heart of Virginia, and that she would be the 
mother of many children and let them roam the coun- 
try free. She did not intend for them to lead an un- 
happy life in the city like the last three years had been 
for her. No, they should have all they wanted! 

When her mother had been rich she had had a beau- 


22 


THE FIRST SHOCK 


23 


tiful home and furniture and pictures and all she could 
desire. It was one of these pictures that had given 
Betty an idea of the country. It was a large picture, 
with hazy blue mountains in the background, and cattle 
feeding in a meadow. Along the road were the milk- 
maids, their buckets on their arms, and sunbonnets on 
their heads, coming to milk the cows. It hung over 
the staircase near a window and Betty would sit on 
the stairs for an hour at a time looking up at it, and 
then making a picture in her mind. Her mother had 
often told her about ‘‘Mapleleaf Grove, ” and explained 
every detail to the child, and Betty drank in every word. 
She had been hungry to hear about the country and all 
the wonderful things connected with it, and often dur- 
ing the recital she had listened with a wistful gaze and 
wished with a great gnawing hunger that she too might 
live in the country and enjoy all the pleasures of which 
her mother told. Once in a while Betty detected a 
wistful note in her mother’s voice, as she told these 
tales, but the child never dreamed that the little mother 
also was longing for the country, for the good times 
which were gone forever. 

Betty felt familiar with the place, in a way, from what 
she had heard, but she never realized that it would be 
so beautiful. The country lanes, the blooming flowers, 
the large meadow, the daisy field, the milking stand, 
the wooded drives — all these things she caught at a 
glimpse and did not know which one to turn to. It 
was all such a delightful novelty to her. However, 
it happened that she turned to none of these places, 
for wandering along, Betty discovered a stream. She 
walked two steps along the bank of it, and then sud- 
denly sat down, and in a moment off came the little 
shoes that were beginning to be rather shabby. The 
stockings followed, and in a minute Betty’s little white 
feet were in the stream. She remembered that she 
had had a book with a picture in it of two little girls 
with their stockings off and their arms full of flowers 
wading along in the water. She had read the tale that 
had accompanied it — how May and Bess had gotten 
flowers along the stream and brought them back to 
their mother, and how delighted and surprised she had 
been. 

“I have no mother,” she said wistfully, but sud- 


24 


THE AWAKENING 


denly remembered a few lines which her mother had 
taught her: ^‘Though thy friend or thine enemy, do 
good unto others, and thou shalt be rewarded, if not 
on earth, in Heaven/’ 

“Uncle Teddy’s not my enemy a bit,” thought 
Betty, as she waded in the clear cool water, “and may- 
be I can find some flowers for him, and oh! it says I’ll 
get my reward, ‘if not on earth in Heaven.’ ” 

It was such a delightful little stream that Betty 
could not get out, for it seemed to charm her, and so 
she went on and on, and, as she had hoped, she did 
find some flowers. Soon the water got a little wider, 
and then they came, Betty and the stream, into an 
old road made of rich dark earth. The moment Betty 
saw it she cried softly, “Mud pies!” The flowers were 
laid aside and Betty began to make a large pile of dirt, 
and finding a tin can went to the stream and filled it 
with water. She poured this on the pile, repeating 
this two or three times, until the dirt suited her taste, 
then filled the can with it, turned it upside down, and 
lo ! a pie was made. She made them all different shapes 
and sizes and finally thought it time to leave, and so 
the flowers were picked up, and Betty, full of anticipa- 
tions of what Uncle Teddy would say to her gift, joy- 
fully waded back. She went slowly, because she 
wanted to be in the stream as long as possible. 

“I’ll come here often, and wade and have a good 
time,” she whispered happily. 

It was such a pleasant gurgling little stream, Betty 
thought. She had never waded before, but she meant 
to come often in the future. Now and then a tadpole 
would go scurrying across the rocks frightened at such 
a huge appearance in its home or a school of little 
minnows would glide swiftly away at the splash of her 
feet which told of her approach. Betty was interested 
in these creatures of the water, so she gazed at the 
water constantly, also because she had to keep a good 
lookout for stones on which to trip, so she scarcely 
looked up. That is why she did not see her uncle, 
nor his shocked face as he turned toward her. But 
she did hear the word “ Elizabeth! ” and was so startled 
that she almost fell into the water. Then she did not 
stop to think that it was in a very stern voice that the 
word had been spoken, when she saw that it was her 


THE FIRST SHOCK 


25 


uncle. She did not stop to see the frown between his 
eyes. With her face full of pleased smiles she rushed 
forward. 

“ Here, ” she cried in a delighted little voice. “ Look, 
I went and got these flowers for you, and oh! I think 
wading is the loveliest thing in all the world, and I’m 
coming here again to see the fish and” — 

Harley interrupted her. Looking down at the very 
small girl with her bare little feet, her arms full of 
flowers, and her dress, oh, what a dress! There was 
a distinct mark of a hand printed on it in thick mud, 
and all the dress was covered with dirt, mud and water. 
Then he looked down at the little face, with a streak 
of mud on one cheek, and her ,hair hanging on the 
other, but a face so full of smiles and beaming looks 
that one did not notice the mud. 

• “Elizabeth,” he said sternly, “I’m ashamed of you! 
Just look at that dress! And a little girl ought to be 
fast asleep at half-past six in the morning! Wading at 
this time of the day! Why, the idea! You are a 
naughty girl! Go right up and change your dress at 
once!” 

Betty shrank back as if a blow had been struck her 
in the face. She had never been scolded like this be- 
fore. Betty was a loving, obedient child and it had 
never been necessary to give her a real scolding. Yet 
she had not been spoiled at all for she was content to 
do as she was bid. True, she had been scolded, for no 
child is perfect, but her mother would take her on her 
lap and explain to her that she had done wrong, until 
Betty perfectly understood what was right and what 
wrong, and repented. She had been punished, too, 
but it had not been done often. Now she was com- 
pletely bewildered, for had not the little girls in the 
book waded also? Yes, and even her mother had. 
She had not known it was wrong, and, though Betty 
did not know it. Squire Harley was not really very 
angry. His voice was always stern, and as the child 
had been accustomed to a gentle voice, she naturally 
doubled his wrath. For a moment she stood still. 
Then she regained her composure and said in a be- 
wildered tone : 

“Is it wrong to wade? I didn’t know it was, for 
mother did it too, and the little girls in my book. 


26 


THE AWAKENING 


And I always get up at six. I got up later than usual 
today. I wanted to get some flowers for you, because 
that’s what the little girls did, but if you don’t want 
them as I thought you would, why” — here Betty’s 
lower lip quivered piteously, “ — why I’ll give them to 
Miranda to keep in her house.” 

. “Come, come,” said Harley, more gently, realizing 
at once that he had been too strict, “I didn’t mean 
you to take it to heart that way, but, er” — he was get- 
ting embarrassed — “you know I never had any little 
girls like you to live with me, and I’m afraid I don’t 
know what to do.” 

There was a painful silence. Harley was thinking 
that this business was too much for him, and Betty 
was thinking of the words she had chanted so happily 
a few minutes before: “Though thy friend or thine 
enemy, do good unto others, and thou shalt be re- 
warded, if not on earth, in Heaven.” 

“ I guess I’ll be rewarded in Heaven, ” thought Betty, 
with a puzzled expression on her face, “ ’cause I’m not 
on earth. ” 

She was of a very forgiving nature, however, and 
after that first instant’s pause she ran to her uncle, 
and exclaimed: 

“I know you didn’t mean to make me almost cry, 
and I didn’t know it was wrong to wade, or I wouldn’t 
have done it. ” 

Harley’s brow cleared and he said: 

“That’s right. Now run up to Miranda and tell 
her to change your dress.” 

The child obeyed and Harley was once more left 
alone. He paced up and down, saying to himself over 
and over again, “ If she’s like this the first day. Heaven 
only knows what the third and fourth days may bring.” 

The child also was thinking, and said to herself, 
“Poor Uncle Teddy never had any little girls to live 
with him before! And he said he didn’t know what to 
do with them! Oh, I know!” and the child jumped up 
and down in an ecstacy of delight as the idea struck 
her, “I’ll teach him, so that some day when I’m grown 
up and have a lot of children and I want to go to Europe 
on a trip with my husband, or want to go visit some- 
body, I can safely send all my children down here, and 
Uncle Teddy will play with them and understand them. 


THE FIRST SHOCK 


27 


because I’ll have taught him what to do with children. ” 
And as she dressed she still kept planning what she 
should do in the role of teacher. She put on a fresh 
pink frock with a big, black bow of ribbon on her yellow 
locks, and a black belt. Oh, I’m so happy, so happy,” 
she cried to herself, as she danced down the steps, 
“Uncle Teddy will take good care of my babies ’cause 
I’ll teach him what to do with children.” 


CHAPTER FIVE. 


AN INTRUSION AND A TALE. 

“Elizabeth, Fm going to breakfast now, come on in 
with me,” said Squire Harley, as he met Betty coming 
down the steps. 

“Yes,” she said, “and. Uncle Teddy, won’t you 
please call me Betty? ” 

“Yes.” 

Breakfast passed quietly, for Harley spent most of 
his time behind a newspaper and Betty did not wish to 
disturb him. 

“May I be excused?” she asked as she finished her 
meal, and as he nodded in assent, she rose from the 
table. 

That morning she spent part of the time in her room 
writing a letter to “ Uncle Georgie, ” the Squire ’s lawyer. 
When it was at last finished she carefully sealed it and 
stamped it. Then she went down stairs in search of 
amusement and asked Squire Harley what to do. He, 
seeing that she was lonely, proposed that she go to 
John Holland and take a riding lesson. She was de- 
lighted and went down to the stable, where she found 
him. 

“Is your name Mr. Holland?” and when he replied 
in the affirmative she told him what the Squire had 
said. 

“Have ye ever rid before?” he questioned. 

“Yes, I went to a riding academy long ago,” ans- . 
wered the child. 

“Wal, now, I reckon the bay mare would be ’bout 
right for ye, ” he remarked. “ She’s tame and she don’t 
shy, but if you want her to she can go lickety split.” 

“Ooh, good!” cried the child, clapping her hands 
and jumping up and down in her excitement. 

28 


AN INTRUSION AND A TALE 


29 


At first she was somewhat timid, as she had not 
been on a horse for such a long time, but by and by 
she got more reckless and touched Lassie with a switch. 
Away she galloped down the road, and then came back 
to meet John Holland, who was riding more slowly be- 
hind. He had taken a great fancy to her in this short 
ride. At last she thought she had better go home to 
her uncle, and so she rode back to the house. Harley 
met her at the gate, her cheeks pink and rosy, her eyes 
sparkling. He smiled somewhat at her pleasure. 

‘‘Did you like it?” he questioned. 

“It was so nice,” she answered, “it was just splen- 
did!” 

After lunch she took a short nap and spent the rest 
of the time in exploring the grounds. She saw old 
Uncle Sam milk the cows, Daisy, Molly, Betsy, Dinah, 
and the others. Then Holland, or Jack, as he asked 
her to call him, showed her the horses and their pas- 
tures, the lambs and goats, and the shepherd dog, with 
her newly-born puppies. 

“ Oh, Jack,” cried Betty, “what shall we name them?” 

“Wal, now. I’ll leave thet to you,” he said, smiling 
at her delight. 

There were four little puppies, snug and tight, lying 
in the box with Pet, the mother — two males and two 
females. 

Betty looked up at him somewhat shyly. “Would 
you mind,” she asked timidly, “if I named one of 
them Jack, after you" Because you’ve been so good 
to show me ’round here, and teach me to ride, that I ’d 
like to name one after you. ” 

John’s ruddy face beamed, and he said in a hearty 
tone: 

“O’ course I wouldn’t mind! I’d be mighty pleased 
to have one of them little pups named after me, and I 
thank ye very much.” 

“Then you’re to be Jack,” said Betty, taking a big 
fat boy puppy, and laying her hand solemnly on his 
head as if christening him. “Only three more now.” 

The others were named promptly. The remaining 
male was named Ted, after her uncle. The two others 
were named Betty and Petty, the first after herself, 
the second after the mother, and Holland promised 


30 


THE AWAKENING 


that when they were old enough to part from their 
mother they should not be sold, but taught to be 
shepherd dogs, and he gave her one for herself. 

“I think ril take Ted, as soon as he can part from 
his mother,'’ she said, and Holland promised her that 
she should have him. It was getting late now and so 
they returned to the house. Betty read ’till supper- 
time and then ate alone, as Harley told her he would 
eat dinner later. She was somewhat sleepy so she went 
to bed at eight and slept ’till nine. Then, though she 
tried hard, she could not get to sleep. She had rested 
that afternoon and the hour’s sleep that she had just 
refreshed her, and she was no longer tired. Feeling 
thirsty she got up out of her little bed and started 
slowly down the stairs in her little white nightgown 
and bare feet. She did not wish to disturb Aunt ’Randy 
who was asleep by now. The broad staircase opened 
into the hall and half way down was a large window. 
Betty looked out of it into the clear, cool night — far 
out into the sky where the stars were all twinkling and 
the moon cast a silvery light o’er all the earth. It was 
there, gazing out on the beautiful world that her reso- 
lution came back stronger than ever to teach her uncle 
to understand children. After a moment of silent 
thought Betty withdrew her gaze from the window 
and walked demurely down the carpeted stairs. Squire 
Harley had made it a rule of his house that the water 
should always be kept in the dining room where it 
would be handy on all occasions. Therefore Betty, 
utterly unconscious of the surprise that awaited her, 
opened the door of the dining room and walked in. 
At first she drew back in surprise, for there, seated 
around the table, were seven or eight gentlemen, 
laughing and talking, while at the head. Squire Harley 
was busily carrying on a conversation with the gentle- 
man on his right. A large roast graced the board, and 
when her uncle was not busy talfing, he would resume 
his carving to supply the needs of those about him. 

Betty looked on, and was so enraptured at the sight 
of the nuts, candy, and other things such as children 
delight in, that she forgot she had no business there; 
forgot, until she saw Squire Harley turn his head in 
her direction and heard his horrified exclamation of 
“Elizabeth.” Then with a guilty start she realized 


AN INTRUSION AND A TALE 


31 


what she must look like with no shoes, her nightgown 
on, and every evidence of being ready for bed. She 
turned a swift red and started quickly through the 
door, as all eyes turned on her; and there was a pause 
for a moment in the chatter of conversation and laugh- 
ing jests. But her uncle stopped her. 

“Elizabeth,” he said sternly, turning a violent red 
himself, as he realized what his friends must think of 
him, “what did you come down here for?” 

His voice was so stern and his face so angry looking, 
that Betty trembled and longed to run up the stairs 
and get into her little bed, but she must first answer 
her uncle’s question, so she said in a voice that sounded 
very little and frightened: 

“I wanted some water. Uncle Teddy.” 

It was an embarrassing moment for all. Embarras- 
sing for Betty as she realized that everyone was look- 
ing at her in wonder and she ready for bed; embarras- 
sing for Harley; embarrassing for the gentlemen, as 
none of them knew what to say or do, yet more than 
one in his heart held silent pity for the child. They 
themselves were sometimes frightened at the Squire’s 
rough voice and angry looks when anything went wrong, 
and they wondered how a little maid could stand it. 
At last one of them ventured a remark. 

“Let up on her, Harley,” he said. 

Betty flashed him a grateful look, but Harley glared 
at him and he relapsed into his former silence. Then 
Harley turned to Betty and continued: 

“Go up to your room now! and tomorrow!” with a 
meaning look. 

The child was only too glad to obey and as she 
rushed up the stairs past the window where such a 
little while ago she had gazed out and planned so hap- 
pily to help her uncle, her good resolution flew to the 
winds. 

“I thought I’d teach him,” she sobbed heart- 
brokenly, “but I can’t, I can’t. He doesn’t under- 
stand me now and he never, never will!” 

She flung herself on her bed and sobbed so loudly 
that Miranda, or Aunt ’Randy, as the child called the 
old colored mammy, came running in the room. When 
the pathetic little tale had been told amid sobs into 


32 THE AWAKENING 

her listening ears, she took the child on her lap and said 
soothingly : 

“There, there, honey, donT cry! Mammy’ll tell 
you a story about Mars’ Harley an’ w’en she gets 
through, she hopes you’ll think better of him dan you 
does.” 

Betty dried her eyes and was perfectly quiet, except 
that every few minutes a huge sob would shake her 
little body. 

“Wal, it’s this-a-way,” said Aunt ’Randy, rocking 
the child to and fro. “Mammy used to be your dear 
ma’s nuss an’ a sweeter chile ’n her neber was. How- 
someber, dat ain’t de p’int. Mars Harley, he lib hyar 
wid yo’ mammy and ole M’randa. Mars was scyace a 
grown man den, an’ I alius fought ob him as a b’ye, 
but he war alius a-workin’ day an’ night. Sometimes 
it seemed as if ’twarn’t quite fair ter his sister, yo’ 
mammy, neber to kiss her or to go a-walkin’ wid her. 
But there, there, chile, w’en I gits a li’l futher, yo’ll 
see how he come to yo’ mammy w’en she war sick. 
But hyar, I’se a-beginning at de wrong en’ complete. 

“One day we-all hyar Miss Sally, yo’ ma, chile, war 
gwine ter git married. We-all was scyard fo’ yo’ ma’s 
sake, caze we thought Mars Harley would git mad, but 
he took it jes’ as ca’m! Fac’, honey, he seemed glad 
that she war so happy and purty lookin’. He meet her 
husban’ an’ he lak’ him fine. Miss Sally war so happy! 
Lawsy, I can see her now! She come ter me an’ she 
says, ‘M’randa,’ she says, ‘I’se gwine ter leave you. 
Tek good cyar ob Mars’ she say, an’ she come up close 
ter kiss me good-bye. ‘I trus’ you, M’randa,’ she say, 
jes’ as purty, her face all sweet an’ seerous (serious), 
‘I know how faithful you is, an’ I wants you ter tek 
cyar ob my brother. ’ Them was her very wuds. Oh, 
yo’ blessed, blessed ma!” Something like a tear fell 
on the faithful old black hand, and something like a 
sob choked Aunt ’Randy’s voice. “ Yo’ blessed, blessed 
ma!” she repeated softly, and then continued, “And 
den she kissed me, an’ I still feel dat kiss, an’ den she 
went away, an’ five yeahs after — she died!” The old 
mammy’s eyes grew moist at the remembrance. 
“Honey, it didn’t seem quite possible ter me den. 
Yo’ ma, who jes’ a I’ll while befo’ had gone away as 
a beautiful bride, a-leanin’ on her husban ’s arm, an^ 


AN INTRUSION AND A TALE 


33 


a-saying ‘Oh, Sidney!’ so happy-like, war dead be- 
cause o’ him! He war sech a strong manly-lookin’ 
young feller at dat; an’ w’en Miss Sally interdooced 
me ter him an’ said, ‘Sidney, dis am AuntM’randa, 
dat nussed me all ma hfe, ’ an’ he say a-lookin’ so big 
an’ han’some like, ‘Glad to see you. Miss Sally’s 
b’en tollin’ me ’bout you. You mus’ be a wonder ter 
hat made wat yo’ has outen her,’ an’ she smiled, an’ 
looked oh, so happy, an’ den a li’ll while later he druv 
her to destruction — no, honey, it don’t seem possible!” 
More tears were falling fast. 

“ Don’t cry, ” comforted Betty, touched by her tears. 
The old nurse dried her eyes on the corner of her apron, 
and went on : 

“ One day Mars Harley got a telegram, a-saying dat 
yo’ mammy wor a-dying, would he come? Yo’ pa had 
been a-goin’ down, a-gittin’ wuss ebery day, an’ w’en 
Squire Harley heard how mean he treated yo’ ma, he 
jes’ hated him, an’ wanted ter tek yo’ ma ter lib wid 
him ag’n, lak befo’, but she say she still lub Mars Sid- 
ney, even ef’n he wor bad. She had a loyal heart, did 
Miss Sally. Dat made Mars Harley mo’ angry still, 
ter t’ink how brabe she wor an’ how hahd she wukked, 
while Mars Sidney wor out havin’ fun, a useless man. 
All day Mars Harley walked de flo’, up and down, up 
and down. We could hyar him a way out in de kitchen. 
It wor a hahd fight wid hisse’f gin hisse’f, but his real 
se’f won, an’ he come ter me an’ said: 

“ ‘M’randa, I’se a-gwine ter Miss Sally, an’ I’ll be 
back in about two or three days. ’ 

“An’ den he went ter yo’ ma an’ befo’ she died she 
says ter him, she don’t want ter leab yo’ ’lone wid yo’ 
pa, caze yo’ was scyard, an’ Mars Harley, bless him, 
said dat w’en yo’ pa died he’d tek yuh ter lib wid him, 
an’ dat made Miss Sally happy, an’ she died a-smilin’. 
An’ now honey, ” concluded the old mammy, “ Dat’s all 
ob my tale. It ain’t much, but it helps powahful. 
Ebery time yo’ gits angry wid Mars Harley, t’ink ter 
yo’se’f how dissapp’inted he wor in Miss Sally, how 
mad he wor at Mars Sidney, how gen’rous he wor in 
tekin’ yo’ hyar, w’en he didn’t know nothing ’bout 
yuh, ’cept that he hoped yo’ tuk aftah yo’ ma, an’ see 
ef’n yuh don’t feel mo’ kinder to’d him, w’en yuh see 
how unhappy his life’s a ben.” 


34 


THE AWAKENING 


Betty remained thoughtful for a space of two or 
three minutes, then she said in a serious voice: 

“Fm goin’ to think about that ev’ry single time he 
scolds me, and I’m sure it will help, ’cause I’ll know 
that he doesn’t know how to treat little girls and that 
he just took me here ’cause mother wanted him to, 
and I won’t be a bit angry!” 

^‘Dat’s right, honey; dat’s right! W’en I tole yo’ 
ma ter do anything, er axed her, she’d say, jes’ lak yuh 
did, ‘I’m going ter think about dat ebery single min- 
ute,’ jes’ lak you. Yas, honey, it’s lak Ah hoped, yo’ 
teks aftah yo’ ma, yo’ sho’ly does!” 

As Betty lay in her bed, her thoughts were all bent 
on her lovely mother, whom she scarcely remembered. 
She thought of her bravery, and then of Aunt ’Randy’s 
words, “Yo’ teks aftah yo’ ma!” She wanted to live 
up to that reputation, oh, how she wanted to! She 
wanted to be good enough to have only one person say 
she resembled her sweet mother. She wanted to do 
some brave act, so that Squire Harley would be proud 
of her. Then she got on her knees, and folding her little 
palms together, said: 

“Dear Lord, please take care of my beautiful mother. 
Keep her just as beautiful, and give her my love. Make 
me a good girl, so that Uncle Teddy will love me a little 
bit, and so that maybe one person will say I’m like my 
beautiful mother, ’sides Aunt ’Randy. Please forgive 
me for being angry at Uncle Teddy, and saying he was 
mean; I didn’t know about him then. Now I’m going 
to love him very much. Please help me, dear Lord, 
not to get mad at him, but to think how good he was 
in taking me, when mother didn’t know what to do 
with me. For Christ’s sake. Amen.” 

Then Betty climbed into her little bed and sobbed. 

“I wish my lovely mother was here now! Uncle 
Teddy doesn’t understand me, but I do him, and I 
want to make him love me. Mother’d help me, I 
know. But I’ll try not to be angry with him any more; 
I’ll try to make him understand me, if I can, all by 
myself. Oh, mother, mother, why did you leave me?” 
Betty broke out afresh. But she was tired with the 
day’s doings and soon sobbed herself to sleep, into the 


AN INTRUSION AND A TALE 


35 


happy Land of Nod, where there are none but pleasant, 
glad thoughts, and where trouble and sorrow cannot 
enter. 


CHAPTER SIX. 


THE STORM. 

The days passed quickly and cheerily. Betty grew 
round and rosy. She rode Lassie quite often and was 
soon perfectly able to do so without the least fear. 
She did not do any rash things and her uncle began to 
see her good points. One day she asked him to go 
out riding with her, and he, thinking that she would 
be scary and timid, replied that he was too busy. So 
Betty went away, wishing that Harley would ride of- 
tener. She did not see why he preferred sitting in his 
office and writing to galloping across the country on a 
swift horse and enjoying Nature’s fresh air. 

After a while John Holland came over on business, 
and as he started home he said to the Squire, ‘‘That 
niece o’ your’s can ride fine! She’s the best young ’un 
on a horse that I’ve seen for many a day. Why, she 
rides way ahead o’ me so that I have to gallop to ketch 
up with her, an’ she guides Lassie clear of all stones and 
holes in the road. Then, if I want her to, she rides real 
quiet beside me. It ain’t a bit o’ bother goin’ out with 
her, it’s a pleasure. She’s got spunk and grit in her 
all right, you can see that by the way she rides.” 

Harley remembered her request of that morning to 
ride with him, but on hearing John Holland’s words 
on how much grit she had, he said, “I’m going for a 
ride at half-past three. I shall be busy until then. 
Saddle Lassie and Dixie, for I’m going to take Eliza- 
beth too.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Holland, respectfully. 

The rest of the morning passed quietly. Squire 
Harley was writing while Betty in her room" was read- 
ing a little book which George Phillips had given her. 


36 


THE STORM 


37 


At lunch Squire Harley told her to be ready to take a 
ride with him. She was delighted that he had changed 
his mind, and at half-past three was eagerly looking 
towards the stable for any sign of John Holland and 
the horses. There had been some trouble in catching 
Dixie and bringing him in from the pasture as he was 
a high-spirited horse, really a colt. But in five or ten 
minutes Holland was at the door and Betty in her sad- 
dle. Squire Harley came out of the house, his riding 
breeches, leather leggings, and Panama hat making 
him very stylish. They were a pleasing pair to look 
upon as they sat on their horses there — the tall, hand- 
some, dignified Squire on the gaunt, black horse, the 
very picture of neatness, and the blithe, animated 
child on the small gray mare. They looked perhaps 
as Winter and Spring might look together, the one 
grim, silent, statue-like, the other happy, carefree, 
a-tingle with life. The one who has tasted the experi- 
ence of life and had received bitterness thereof; the 
other just starting in, happy, innocent, resolved to 
take things as they might come. The very picture of 
grim experience, or Age, and of happy innocence, or 
Youth. 

In less time than words can tell, they were out on 
the shady road, under the overhanging trees, riding 
briskly along. Betty soon broke into a gallop, and 
nodding and smiling at her uncle, vanished around a 
curve in the road. “Be careful!” he warned, but there 
was no need of anxiety, as Betty could manage her horse 
perfectly. “I’m glad she’s got spunk,” thought the 
Squire, “even if she is a girl. ” It pleased him to know 
that she took after him in that respect. He, also, at 
her age, had been fearless, and had liked to gallop 
ahead as she was doing now. He had often entered 
for races on his swift horse Lady, and had still many a 
trophy that he had won. In a few minutes she came 
trotting back to meet him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes 
sparkling. 

“We had a fine gallop, didn’t we. Lassie, old girl?” 
addressing the horse, “but we’ll rest now, ’cause you’re 
tired.” 

They kept pace in a slow walk for a distance of about 
a quarter of a mile, then Betty said, “ Uncle Teddy, let’s 
go to Jackson Hill. I want to get a little pin for Aunt 


38 


THE AWAKENING 


’Randy. She hasn’t a speck of jewelry, and I know 
she’d just adore a pin.” 

Harley had no special place he wished to go, and 
so he complied with her request and they turned their 
horses heads in the direction of the small town which 
lay four miles distant from “Mapleleaf Grove.” As 
they cantered briskly along, keeping up a lively con- 
versation, Harley realized that the sky was rapidly 
growing dark, and foreseeing that it would soon be 
pouring, he proposed that they stop at some wayside 
farm where they could wait until the storm passed. 
Just as they reached the old mill a drop of rain an- 
nounced that the storm was upon them and they drew 
rein, and led the horses to a rough little shanty where 
an old mule was fast asleep in a corner. Then they 
made a dash for the house, just as the rain came down 
in torrents. 

Mrs. Johnson, who lived in the mill with her hus- 
band, was quite delighted to have such distinguished 
guests, and bustled around, arranging things for their 
comfort, like a veritable old hen. She was quite taken 
up with Betty, for the child’s bright face and cheery 
smile won the old lady’s heart. She too had had a 
little girl long ago, but she had died when she was but 
a child, and the old couple had lived alone these many 
years. 

It proved to be only a short rain, and the sun came 
out in all its glory, throwing a golden light over all the 
world, and a great yellow ball reflecting in the lake be- 
low. It was all so beautiful as they rode down through 
the gate, that Betty was loath to turn home. She told 
Harley this and said how beautiful it was out and what 
a shame it seemed to be in the house, when they could 
be enjoying their interrupted ride. Harley could not 
but agree as the same idea had come to him, and so 
when she said, “Let’s go on to Jackson Hill and if it 
rains we can stay there, ” he complied with her request. 
They rode fairly slowly at first, for the sky was clear 
and all the earth was so beautiful that they wanted to 
take in all its loveliness. It was towards the end of 
their journey that Harley proposed that they try a 
gallop. Away they went, the gaunt black horse and 
the gray mare, tearing up the road as fast as their legs 
could carry them, so that they soon reached the town. 


THE STORM 


39 


Betty got off at the county store to buy her pin for 
Aunt ’Randy, and Harley rode down to the post-office 
to purchase a book of stamps, after they had agreed to 
meet at the store. Then Harley returned and they 
were soon on the way home. It was still more lovely 
than it had been coming over and Betty could not help 
reverting her gaze from the road in front of her to the 
lovely, glowing west. Ah, those Virginia sunsets, 
when the monarch of the skies changes the world to 
its own glorious colors, brilliant orange and red. Gradu- 
ally, as the sun sinks lower the colors become more dim, 
and not so gaudy, and the atmosphere is more of tran- 
quility and peacefulness. Finally even the pale pink 
and blue die out, and purple twilight settles o’er the 
world while it prepares for night in the still hush of 
evening. 

And as Betty pointed out its beauties to Harley, the 
way it made the yellow fields of corn along the road 
glow, and what a lovely reflection it cast in the water, 
the flaming, crimson ball slowly disappeared behind the 
hazy, blue mountains. They quickened their steps 
now, and galloped swiftly along. In their perfect hap- 
piness and enjoyment of the previous sunset, they did 
not notice that in the west a cloud was rapidly gather- 
ing. But just as they reached the old mill, half the 
distance home, a light rain began to fall. Harley did 
not wish to stop in there again and said if they galloped 
they would soon reach home. Had he seen that dark 
cloud over his head he would not have ventured on the 
two mile ride home, but to all appearances it was but 
a short rain, and he thought it would soon stop. But 
they broke into a swift gallop along the road where 
there were no more houses to be passed, through the 
rain which was now falling harder than before. When 
they had gone a little less than a mile the storm broke 
in its fury. A high wind blew, and the thunder roared, 
and oh! such lightning. Here it was that Harley 
realized his mistake. In the day many a traveler had 
blessed the overhanging trees for the pleasant shade 
they cast on the dusty road, but now they were any- 
thing but a pleasure for trees are dangerous things in 
time of lightning, and as the riders rode swiftly by, 
they crashed on either side and fell to the ground. 
Harley fervently hoped that the storm would go down. 


40 


THE AWAKENING 


But the storm, instead of decreasing, was decidedly 
gaining on them, and Harley urged his horse to a still 
faster pace. He was afraid, not for himself, but for 
Betty. She however, was enjoying herself thoroughly 
after the first moment ^s surprise, and never once com- 
plained. She was keeping Lassie at a swift gallop as 
she rode by her uncle’s side, and she thought nothing 
of the danger. She was not altogether comfortable as 
the heavy rain that was falling had soaked through her 
thin clothes, but she thought the whole thing such an 
adventure that she did not stop to think about herself. 
Indeed, she did not have time to think anything much 
then, for it was all she could do to keep up with Dixie 
who was tearing across the ground at a maddening 
pace. The horses were not much frightened, only 
when now and then an especially brilliant streak of 
lightning lit up the road, and they would shy and jump 
back. The wind furiously blew the rain across Betty’s 
face and her ribbon fell off her drenched curls, but they 
never stopped for a second. On, on, at the same mad 
gallop through the black twilight until it seemed to 
Betty that they were spinning round and round, and 
that all the world was a black mass of fallen trees and 
streaks of lightning. But she never lost her courage 
for one moment, for she did not want her uncle to 
think her timid and afraid. And then. Aunt ’Randy 
had said that Betty’s mother was brave, and as the 
child galloped along, she remembered the old black 
mammy’s words “ Yo’ teks aftah yo’ ma.” She wanted 
Harley to think so too, and so she tried not to think 
of the dangers of the stornri, gritted her teeth and kept 
her courage. Once or twice Harley glanced down to 
see if Betty was frightened, but the same determined 
little face always met his gaze, with her eyes fixed on 
the road ahead of her, and lips set, while her hand 
guided Lassie clear of all stones and holes in the road. 
He could but admire her courage and told himself over 
and over that some girls were as brave as boys, and 
remembering how he had loved to ride and how reck- 
less he had been at her age, he declared that she cer- 
tainly got it from his side of the family. It was just 
as the storm was at its highest, turning into the row 
of maples, that Betty realized that her head felt heavy. 
All of a sudden a chill took possession of her, she felt 


THE STORM 


41 


dizzy and would have fallen off her horse had she not 
remembered her resolution to be brave. So she sat up 
straight, and, urging her pony to the last mad gallop, 
she drew rein at the gate, rather fell than climbed out 
of her saddle, and stumbled into the house. Aunt 
’Randy was anxiously looking out of the window, but 
when she saw Betty come tottering into the room she 
ran up to her. 

“Chile!” she cried, “you’se sick!” 

Betty, now that she was once more in the house, felt 
so thankful that the dizziness passed away, but she 
still felt somewhat weak and her head ached. How- 
ever, she replied: 

“No, Aunt ’Randy, I’m all right. I’m just tired 
from riding so far.” 

But Aunt ’Randy still looked anxiously at Betty’s 
pale face. “ ’Twar a long, hard ride for a chile to tek, ” 
she murmured. Aloud she said, cheerfully: 

“Wal, wal, thet wor a ride, worn’t it? ’Tain’t no 
wondah you’se tiahed, honey. Come, on Aunt ’Randy’ll 
put her baby teh bed, jes’ lak she done to yo’ ma befo’ 
you.” 

But Betty demurred, not that she did not want to 
go to bed — far from it — for she was tired with her long 
ride and excitement, and her head was throbbing pain- 
fully, but she did not want Harley to think her a baby, 
and again she did not think it would be right to leave 
him all alone downstairs, so rising to her feet, she said 
stoutly : 

“I tell you I’m all right. Aunt ’Randy. At first I 
felt kind of queer but now I’m all right. Honest to 
goodness!” 

As Squire Harley entered at this point Aunt ’Randy 
said nothing further, somewhat convinced at the child’s 
reassuring words, but still a little frightened at the pale- 
ness of her usually rosy cheeks. Her uncle hastily told 
Aunt ’Randy the tale of their ride, after which the old 
mammy again glanced anxiously at the child’s face, 
but as Betty refused to leave her uncle alone, the old 
mammy was forced to comply with her request of say- 
ing nothing about her having been dizzy, as the child 
stoutly declared that she felt perfectly well. 

So in a few minutes, after having changed her wet 
clothes to a neat white dress, she took her usual place 


42 


THE AWAKENING 


at the head of the table with Harley at the foot. Her 
uncle was quite entertaining this particular evening, 
and Betty tried valiantly to keep up with his remarks. 
She felt as if she were far away from Harley and only 
half heard his questions and answers. After dinner, 
her uncle, noticing her somewhat pale cheeks and 
heavy eyes, suggested that she retire, to the child’s 
great delight. Kissing her uncle goodnight, she ran 
upstairs to Aunt ’Randy and informed her that she 
was going to bed. After she was undressed and ready, 
she confessed of having a slight headache. “ However,” 
she said, “I know it’ll be gone in the mornin’. Aunt 
’Randy.” 

The mammy kissed the child soon after and left her 
to sleep, with an anxious frown on her face. 

“I know I’m all right,” Betty murmured sleepily. 
“I’m not goin’ to be sick, an’ I hope Uncle Teddy 
didn’t think I was a baby. ” And with this she thank- 
fully entered into the Land of Dreams. 

She would have given anything in her power if she 
could have known that her uncle downstairs was com- 
menting on her bravery. 

“She’s a plucky little thing,” he said thoughtfully, 
as he paced up and down, “and in many respects she 
takes after her mother, though I did not see it at first. 
Sally was so different though, in other ways. She was 
frail and delicate, while Betty is healthy and strong. 
But the child has the courage that her Mother had. 
Even though she did feel probably frightened and ner- 
vous this afternoon, she never once complained dur- 
ing the ride. ” 

He missed her too, and therefore soon followed her 
example and retired, muttering as he did so in a tri- 
umphant tone, “Yes, she’s plucky and has the same 
determined look that her mother had that seems to 
show that she would never give in to fear if she could 
help it. You can tell that she’s Sally’s own daughter, 
and I’m thankful that it’s so.” 


CHAPTER SEVEN. 


THE CRISIS. 

The next morning Betty awoke with a fever and 
Aunt ’Randy advised that she stay in her bed. She 
was only too glad to do so, as her head was throbbing 
painfully. As time passed the fever mounted so high 
that Harley thought it best to send for a doctor. He 
came in due time, and was taken up to see Betty. 
When he had felt her pulse and taken her temperature, 
he told Miranda to keep her in bed, and gave her a 
medicine to give the child. When Harley met him 
downstairs, and anxiously inquired about Betty, the 
doctor told him with a somewhat grave face that he 
feared that she might be quite ill, but that if well 
taken care of, it might not prove as serious as he feared. 
Then, leaving word that he would call again the next 
day, he departed, leaving Harley gazing after him 
with a troubled look. 

Meanwhile Betty tossed restlessly in her bed and 
longed to go out. It was silly, she said to herself, to 
keep her in bed on such a lovely day, and she didn’t 
think the doctor was fair to put her there. But still, 
that head certainly was hurting her, and Betty had to 
admit finally that she didn’t think she could have 
much fun, even if she were up. By lack of amuse- 
ment, the child thought over all her past life, and how 
changed things had been since she came to live with 
her uncle. These last ones had been happy times! 
She had never had an opportunity before to learn how 
beautiful the world really was, but in these last two 
months she had learned more than in all the years of 
her childhood. Country! what a wonderful thing it 
was! And as Betty meditated on all these subjects. 


43 


44 


THE AWAKENING 


she suddenly realized how good Harley was to her. 
She had often wondered before why he had changed 
so much since she came. Why he had not welcomed 
her at first and now seemed anxious when she was ill. 
And then it all dawned on Betty in a great flash. He 
liked her! Her uncle liked her! Perhaps, perhaps, he 
thought her like her mother! She prayed that this 
might be true, but dreaded that her imagination had 
gone too far. But he liked her. Betty was sure of 
this now. And the thought made her glad, and she 
prayed that she might be made well soon so that she 
might show Harley her gratitude and her love in re- 
turn. And she seemed so helpless shut up in bed, un- 
able to tell Harley of her love for him, that again it 
seemed unfair for her to be ill at this time. “But, if 
I hadn’t been ill,” she reasoned, “I never would have 
thought of these things.” She would make up for all 
the trouble and anxiety she was causing her uncle, by be- 
ing extra good when she was well. She was glad she had 
pleased him and that he liked her, and she wanted 
him to know it. No, she would never again be naughty 
as long as she lived, because he liked her, and perhaps 
he might love her some day! 

The doctor came soon and shook his head. “She is 
not in good condition,” he said. “Her fever has 
mounted and I fear a serious illness is impending.” 

The doctor was a kind old man with snow white 
hair. He held a great pity for Harley, as he knew how' 
he loved the child. The old doctor had cured many a 
case of mumps or measles, and plastered many a cut 
or bruise when Harley was a lad. He remembered the 
gentle little sister, Betty’s mother, and had hoped the 
child would fare better than her mother had. He knew 
now that his prayers had been answered. He knew 
that Harley loved Betty even more than he (Harley) 
realized; loved her with a great, overwhelming love. 
The doctor’s prayers were not the only ones which had 
been answered. Many a night Betty herself had prayed 
that her uncle might love her. 

Before night had come the child was in a high fever. 
She tossed on her bed, sometimes delirious, but oftener 
conscious. Mr. Dixon sent a sympathetic note to Har- 
ley, but Mrs. Dixon, who was little more than a girl, 
came over in person, telling Harley she had the inten- 


THE CRISIS 


45 


tion of sta3ang to nurse Betty if he would allow her to 
do so. He was so grateful to her that she was touched 
and immeditately went up to the child’s room. Betty 
was tossing feverishly, and when Mrs. Dixon came in, 
she looked up in surprise. 

“I have come to take care of you, dear,” said Mar- 
garet, gently. 

For the next few days Margaret nursed the child dili- 
gently. She quite fell in love with Betty, and was so 
touched by Harley’s great anxiety that she did the best 
she could. She sent a note to her husband telling him 
she could not possibly leave the child for a week or 
two. At last Betty’s fever grew to such a high point 
that one day they feared for her life. 

Those were dark days that followed when the little 
sufferer lay so patiently on her pillows. She always 
waited with such a sad, patient expression on her face; 
waited for the dear faces she loved. Margaret was ever 
at her side, willing to do anything the little patient 
wished. When Margaret left her for meals, or when 
she sometimes went downstairs to get the child’s food, 
Harley took his turn by the bedside. At last there 
came a time when she would sleep and sleep, as if 
never to wake again. At other times, when delirious, 
she called for Harley or Margaret in such a sad, plead- 
ing little voice, even when they were right beside her. 
And the old doctor would gravely shake his head over 
her, as if he were wondering if she would ever get well. 
At night she was restless and would toss about, calling 
continually in her feeble little voice, for “Water, 
water!” The doctor had forbidden too much water 
and Margaret had often to refuse her cries of thirst. 
It hurt her to see the parched lips and dry little tongue 
when she had to refuse. The child kept her eyes fixed 
longingly on the water-pitcher, which was so near her 
yet which she could not have. 

At last came the crisis, a time when one is at the 
point of death. One step the wrong way and the pa- 
tient is gone, one step the right and there is hope. 
But which way will Betty turn? Will she turn and 
go with those who love her and who are watching over 
her so faithfully and praying that she will recover, or 
will God take her up, to live in his blessed home, 
where he has taken so many before her? 


46 


THE AWAKENING 


Doctor Stewart bent down to the bed where she had 
lain delirious so long. Then he raised his white head 
and whispered reverently: 

‘^She will live. She sleeps.” 

“Thank God!” said Harley, the tears of thankful- 
ness coming into his eyes. 

And Margaret bowed her head. 

After this Betty recovered rapidly. She was so 
happy, as everyone else was, that it was a pleasure to 
see her face. She thought of all that had happened, 
particularly of the ride and sunset. Betty never for- 
got that sunset; somehow it seemed to impress itself 
on her memory. Perhaps the exciting storm that fol- 
lowed it had made it distinct in her remembrance. 
But in years after, she recalled how the glowing ball 
of fire had sunk into the very mountains before her, 
leaving a shining world behind. 

She was so grateful to Margaret for all her tender 
care, and Harley could not express himself. 

“You saved her life,” he said brokenly, “and I can 
never thank you enough for it.” 

“I am glad to have been able to be of any service 
to you,” she replied sincerely. “And I must say that 
Betty is the sweetest little patient that I have ever 
seen. It was a pleasure to nurse her and I must con- 
gratulate you on having such a delightful little niece.” 

Not long after this Margaret took her leave, much 
to the sorrow of all at “Mapleleaf Grove,” for she had 
won every heart by sympathetic understanding in her 
short stay; but much to the relief of her husband, who, 
though he himself had advised her to go, had felt very 
lonely since her departure. 

“ I wonder why they make the Squire out to be such 
a tyrant, ” she said to her husband that evening. ‘ ‘ He 
was as sweet and tender with Betty when she was ill, 
as a woman, and spoke very gratefully to me. I have 
hardly ever seen a man so broken up as he was. It 
quite went to my heart.” 

“He is not fierce at all,” said her husband. “It is 
only that he does not understand women. Living 
alone so many years, secluded from everyone has made 
him crabbed. He has been very bitter since his sister ^s 
death, and has seen but few people. But now I know 


THE CRISIS 


47 


one little woman whom he likes,” and Dixon looked 
with pride at his pretty wife. “Perhaps you have 
opened up the way for him. The liking of one woman 
may lead to the loving of another. I declare, I’m get- 
ting quite jealous!” and he shook his finger playfully 
at her. ‘ ‘ I suppose he will soon be here to call on you. 
I must keep my eye on you!” 

Dixon was right. Not long after this Harley came 
to call, to once more acknowledge his thanks. 

“Well, what do you think of my wife?” Dixon asked 
of him. 

“Think of her! Why, I think she is the finest little 
woman I ever met! I can never thank her enough for 
all she has done for me. She was as sweet as possible 
to Betty, and so helpful to all in the house that I feel 
I owe her something.” 

At this moment Margaret entered and so there the 
subject closed. 

Betty’s cheeks grew so rosy and her appetite so 
large, that Harley laughingly declared that he was sure 
her illness had done her good. She was soon running 
around on the grass as merry as a cricket, or galloping 
down the road on Lassie. It was good to see her again, 
so happy, so bright, so like her old self. She often 
went to the Dixon’s and was always welcomed with 
joy by them all. 

In fact, Betty was well. Yes, Betty, Harley’s Betty, 
was well, and therefore “Mapleleaf Grove” took up 
its natural round of life once more. 


CHAPTER EIGHT. 


Betty's story. 

With all the pleasures that followed, there were a 
few sorrows. Harley seemed troubled about some- 
thing, and often when Betty came near, he would 
open his lips as if to say something, and then resolutely 
shut them again. At last one day he called the child 
to his side. 

‘‘Betty," he began, “now that you have come to 
live at ‘ Mapleleaf ’ for good, I think it is time you should 
know your mother's history, and I am going to give it 
to you. I am sure you are old enough to understand. " 

Now at last Betty knew what had been troubling 
her uncle in these past days. She knew that he would 
lay the blame on himself, and she understood and sym- 
pathized. 

“I know it all. Uncle Teddy," she said softly. 

“Who told you?" asked Harley, amazed. 

“Aunt 'Randy told me all about my mother and 
father, and all about you." 

“How did she tell it? What did she say?" 

Thereupon Betty related, word for word, the tale 
which the old mammy had told her. 

“That’s exactly right!" said Harley, after Betty had 
finished. “Dear old Miranda! So she sympathized 
with me! After your dear mother died, I thought no 
one cared what became of me, but Miranda cares!" 

Betty looked hurt. “I care," she said, and Harley 
kissed her. 

“Uncle Teddy, will you go riding with me?" asked 
Betty somewhat irrelevantly. 

Harley agreed with her proposal, so Betty thanked 
him, and then ran and ordered the horses. 


48 


BETTY’S STORY 


4P 


John Holland smiled and said: “You’re just as spry 
as ever, ain’t you? My, but it’s good to see you up an’ 
ridin’ instid o’ lyin’ in a grave!” Holland was always 
cheerful ! 

“I couldn’t have died,” Betty said simply, “be- 
cause Uncle Teddy says he needs me.” 

“What faith!” muttered Holland. Aloud he said: 

“All right, Miss Betty, I’ll get the horses for ye 
right now.” 

Betty returned to the house and changed her dress 
to riding clothes. Harley followed her example and 
soon they were both ready to go. 

When they got out on the road the Squire questioned 
Betty as to what she had done when she lived in the 
city and whether she remembered any of her past life. 
She remembered many things. 

“First we lived in a big house, Uncle Teddy. It 
wasn’t as big as ‘Mapleleaf Grove,’ but it was full of 
lovely pictures and furniture. Mother was very happy 
and so was my father. He used to go to his office every 
day and mother and I would always be at the gate to 
meet him when he came back. You never saw our 
house, did you? It wasn’t right in the city, but out- 
side in what they called the suburbs. It was in a Idnd 
o’ country, but not a bit like it is down here. It had 
grass and flowers and trees, but people had so many 
houses in it with just little gardens in between, that 
that’s what made it look so different from down here. 
I loved it but I’d never seen real country like this be- 
fore. But one day mother and all the maids began to 
pack and pack. Mother was crying most of the time 
and everybody seemed so sorry for her. The maids 
were all the time saying: “Poor mistress! What an 
awful thing to happen!” 

“I didn’t understand what they meant when they 
said that, but I do now. I hardly ever saw father 
when he did come home, and he acted so queerly. 
He didn’t pick me up and carry me to the house like 
he always did before. He hardly ever came near 
mother. I was very unhappy then. Uncle Teddy. 
Mother was packing most of the time and I had noth- 
ing to do. When I asked her what was the matter 
with father and why he came home so late, it only 
made her cry. Even the maids wouldn’t talk to me 


50 


THE AWAKENING 


but kept saying: ‘‘Poor mistress! Poor mistress!” 

“At last, one day, feeling lonely, cross, and tired of 
being left alone, I saw father come in the door. I ran 
to him to kiss him and to ask him why mother was 
crying, but he pushed me away roughly. Oh, Uncle 
Teddy, Til never forget how surprised I was! I ran 
up in m}^ room and la}^ down on the bed and cried and 
cried. Nobody came to comfort me, nobody seemed 
to care. I can see now that mother needed comfort- 
ing more than I did. I remember that I went to sleep. 
When I woke up mother was standing in the doorway. 
I saw that she had been crying some more, for her eyes 
were red and swollen. She put on my hat and coat, 
and I asked her where we were going. She didn’t cry 
this time, but said softly: ‘We are going to live in the 
city, dear. ’ 

“I longed to ask her a hundred questions, but I was 
afraid she might cry. Then we brought a lot of suit- 
cases and some trunks, and we got into a cab. It took 
us a little way until we got into the city. 

“Is this where we are going to live? I asked, and 
mother nodded. 

“I thought it was quite pretty and expected the cab 
to stop soon. But it went a long, long way, down 
rickety streets, and across car-tracks. I didn’t think 
this part of the city was pretty at all. There were a 
lot of dirty children around the streets, and some ugly 
little shops there. I was too young to understand all 
this, feeling sure mother would tell it all to me after 
a while. At last the cab stopped and I looked up to 
see where we were. It was a fairly big house, very 
plain, but right nice. It was a little bigger than our 
other house had been. I asked mother if we were going 
to live here and she said yes. It’s big, isn’t it? I asked 
her, but she did not answer. I said. Uncle Teddy, that 
it was so much bigger than our other house had been, 
but mother said no. When we went in there were a lot 
of doors. I heard people talking in there but I didn’t 
say anything ’cause mother looked as if she were going 
to cry again. When we got upstairs, I found that only 
three rooms in the whole house belonged to us. Mother 
called it a flat, but I didn’t know what that meant 
then. 

“It’s funny, Uncle Teddy, but I remember how 


BETTY’S STORY 


51 


well I slept that night. Fm sure I wouldn’t have slept 
at all except that I was so tired and puzzled with the 
day’s doings, for there was so much noise in the streets. 

“After a while I learned that we had sold our other 
big home to some people. Soon I got kind of used to 
the noise and everything else in the city, though I 
missed the grass and trees, for there the streets were 
bare and ugly. I remember now, that not half our 
things were there in the flat, that we had had before. 
There was only one maid who had come with us; all 
the others had stayed at the old home. 

“When I asked mother where all our pretty things 
had gone to, she cried again. I wasn’t very happy in 
the flat at first, it was so shut in, and there weren’t 
any flowers and trees, or grass, but by and by I got 
used to it. We hardly ever saw father then. At last 
one day we packed again, only this time we hardly 
took a thing. Jane, the maid, didn’t come with us 
this time. I remember that when she said good-bye 
to mother, she was crying and we never saw her after 
that. Then we moved to a tiny little house somewhere, 
and there mother died. That was where you found her. 
Uncle Teddy, and now you know the rest.” 

As Betty finished her story, she looked up. “Fm 
going to forget all that’s happened and only think how 
happy I am here. Yes, I’m going to forget everything 
but mother, and I’ll never forget her.” 

“That’s right, Betty,” said Harley, gently. “Don’t 
remember the unhappy things of the past; forget, as 
you say, everything but your mother. Never, never, 
forget her, dear. She was an angel, Betty, yes, she 
was nothing short of an angel.” 

And then they rode home. 


CHAPTER NINE. 


THE AWAKENING. 

Those were happy days that followed. Betty rode 
frequently with Harley now, and they both enjoyed 
these rides to the utmost. One could hardly believe, 
seeing her rosy cheeks and healthy appetite, that she 
had been so near death. And Harley was changed too. 
Gradually a new light was dawning on him, of which 
he was barely conscious, the hght of Understanding, 
of Love. God had heard his prayers and had spared 
Betty, and Harley loved her more than ever before. 

“You are like your mother, Betty, ” he said dreamily 
to her one day, little guessing what rapture those few 
words brought to the child. 

Betty said nothing at the time, but went up to her 
room and leaned her head on her hand. 

“He thinks I’m like mother,” she said in an awe- 
stricken tone, as if she thought it almost too good to 
be true. 

June soon came, and with it strawberries, cherries 
and other delicious fruits. Some of these fruits were 
preserved, but Betty managed to get away with a 
good many of them. She thought June in the country 
the most delightful thing she had ever known. She 
wandered over the place, never lonely, never with the 
question on her hps “What shall I do?” Do? What 
wouldn’t she do was more like it! There was the rid- 
ing, of which she never tired; swimming in the large 
pool, and then always the berries to pick or the violets. 
She often played with the two little darkies who lived 
not far away, and found much amusement with them. 

Harley watched the happy little child as she raced 
across the lawn or flitted among the flowers like some 


52 


THE AWAKENING 


53 


gay butterfly, and then he thanked God that He had 
spared her, and prayed Him to keep her out of danger, 
and to guide him so that he could show his love for 
her more than he had done for her mother. 

One day, Mary Clark, the eldest of the two darkies, 
came running over excitedly, and called out to Betty 
long before she reached her: 

“ ’Deed, Miss Betty, mammy say she want Mars 
Holly ter come ovah rat away, ’deed she did!” 

Betty, curious though she was to know the cause of 
this somewhat sudden demand, ran upstairs to give 
Harley the message. He came down himself to see the 
child and asked that she explain herself. Upon this, 
she said: 

“Mammy say fo’ you please to come ovah jes’ as 
soon as you kin an’ bring a prar book, ’case Jim’s a 
dying as’ mammy say you was de kindest an’ de bes’ 
gintleman in de county, an’ dat you was a heap bet- 
ter’n any minister, an’ she wants you to come ovah 
an’ pray fo’ Jim fo’ he dies!” 

This message was rattled off so quickly that it was 
all Harley could do to understand what was wanted. 
At first he started to say he was too busy, for he had 
not touched a prayer-book for three years, but then he 
asked himself could he let the poor boy fade away into 
death with no one caring except his mother, and with- 
out even a blessing to carry to the grave with him? 
He was colored but what did that matter in the hour 
of death, for had not God made both black and white 
out of the same dust, and were they not brothers? 
It would be cruel to refuse. So telling the child that 
he would get his prayer-book, he went into the house. 
He soon came out, and leaving word with Betty that 
he would soon be back, he started on the sad journey 
back, led by the little colored girl. 

As he walked along he thought of Betty, and how 
she had just been delivered from death, and thought 
to himself how thankful he had been, and then, when 
the call came and some poor boy was dying and all 
that was required of him was to give a blessing — why, 
oh why, had he almost refused? 

“She loves her boy as much as I do Betty, and wants 
to keep him as I did her, and she was delivered. The 
poor mother says I am the kindest gentleman around, 


54 


THE AWAKENING 


and I have done nothing for her, and all she asks is to 
say a blessing over a deathbed, while I have all I want, 
even the life of Betty spared.” 

When Harley reached the hut, the scene was one of 
the most pathetic he had ever witnessed. There, on 
some planks nailed together, with a pile of old rags, 
lay the sick boy, Jim, dying, while on her knees beside 
him an old mammy with her head buried in the rags, 
was sobbing her heart out. The house contained two 
rooms, one half the size of an ordinary one, and the 
other tiny. The door into the smaller room was closed, 
but he saw enough of the one he was in to last a long 
time to come. The only furniture was a big box with 
two smaller ones around it, all turned upside down, 
which served as table and chairs for their scanty meals; 
a cracked mirror, and an old gray stove. On the bare 
walls were tacked one or two pictures, cut out from 
some cheap magazine. Around in different corners 
were little darkies, all staring at Harley and then at 
their poor mother and brother. 

Harley gasped, then cried to himself, ^‘God! I never 
knew there was such poverty in the world, and on my 
place too! For what reason can the mother think me 
the kindest gentleman? Why did she choose me, above 
all others, to read the service, when I can treat her this 
way?” 

As soon as Aunt ’Lindy, the mother, saw Harley, 
she rose and came over to him. 

“Mars Holly,” she said in a trembling voice, “Mars 
Holly, you’se a gran’ gentleman and you’se my mars, 
an’ now my po’ Jim’s a-dyin’ would yo’ do me a las’ 
favor?” 

Harley, in assent, opened his prayer-book. He 
turned the pages and came to the burial-service and 
the Holy Creed. He paused, started the Creed, then 
turned back to the service. As it happened, he used 
neither, for he closed the book. 

“ I want to pray something that she will understand,” 
he said. “A simple prayer to God.” 

Before he said this prayer aloud, he prayed that he 
might say the right thing to these poor souls. Then he 
raised his hand over the dying boy’s head. 

“Oh Lord and Father of all, have mercy upon this 
poor repentant soul in the hour of judgment. Forgive 


THE AWAKENING 


55 


his sins on earth that he may enter thy presence with 
a clean and holy heart, when thou takest him up to 
Thine home above. For the sake of One who came to 
earth and saved us all — ^Jesus of Nazareth. Amen.” 

And the old mother understood these simple words 
better than she would have the prayer-book service. 
Jim was reassured at the words. He raised his feeble 
head. 

‘‘Don’ cry, mammy, I’se on’y gwine home. I’se 
tiahed. I’ll meet you dar, mammy, when you comes. 
I’se on’y gwine home.” 

And those were the last words the boy ever spoke. 
Aunt ’Lindy gave him her last kiss, and then rising 
slowly and painfully, she walked silently out of the 
room, her faithful old head bowed on her breast. Har- 
ley remained to pronounce a final blessing on the dead 
boy and then slowly walked into the smaller of the two 
rooms where he found her on her knees. 

“Don’t cry,” Harley said, unconsciously copying 
the boy’s words. “Jim’s only gone home. We will all 
follow soon. ” 

“Lor’ bless you. Mars Holly. Ef’n it ’adn’t be’n fo’ 
you ma po’ Jim would a had nary a prar. Lor’ bless 
you sah, the Lor’ bless you,” said the mammy. “My 
po’ Jim’s on’y goed on a li’l bit ahead ter lead de way 
fo’ me. He ain’t a-gone, he’s right ahead a-calling fo’ 
me to come. I’se a-comin’, Jim, I’se a-comin’, to he’p 
ma boy along!” 

Harley left the old mammy soon after this, having 
reasoned with her and talked to her. Not long after 
he left, two cots, two chairs, a table, and some bed- 
covers were brought over to Aunt ’Lindy by Aunt 
’Randy and two or three men, the former saying that 
the Squire had sent them. 

Harley, when he got home, locked himself in his 
room and set to thinking. He thought of the death- 
bed he had just witnessed, and the pathetic old mammy. 
And then he thought of the words of Aunt ’Lindy, that 
he “wor better’n any minister, de kindest an’ de bes’ 
gentleman in de county.” 

“So this is the awakening,” he mused. “Through 
some poor innocent soul, who thought me sinless, I 
get the awakening. The awakening to the poverty 
around me, the awakening to my stinginess; oh, the 


56 


THE AWAKENING 


awakening of my real self! And Betty, as Aunt ’Lindy, 
must think as she gradually grows older that I am only 
good and kind; she must not know of my former stin- 
giness and cruelty!’’ 

Betty; ah, her faithful little heart would not have 
believed it if someone had told her of his wickedness. 
Already she thought him the prefection of all that was 
good and kind. 

“I have been a brute,” he said to himself. ‘‘About 
all my petty luxuries, while on my place people were 
living like pigs in a pig-pen ! I have never gone around 
my place to see about such things, never dreamed there 
was such horrible poverty ! I have stayed in my house 
all the time, never inspecting my grounds, never visit- 
ing my tenants!” 

When he told Betty that he had been selfish all his 
life with no feeling for others, she refused to believe it, 
even when he repeated it, she stubbornly denied that 
it was a possibility. 

“Yes, I have been wicked all my life, but now let 
us forget the past, for, Betty, today, through an old 
woman, simple and trusting, has come the awakening; 
yes, Betty, the awakening of my soul to Understand- 
ing and Love.” 


CHAPTER TEN. 


A GLIMPSE AHEAD. 

Four years have passed and Betty has grown a tall 
graceful girl, entirely different from the little Betty in 
the last chapter. Everything seems changed. True, 
it is the same room that Harley and Betty are sitting 
in, in front of the same great fireplace, on the comforta- 
ble old sofa. 

Harley has not changed except that the hair around 
his temples has grown somewhat gray, but in another 
way he looks younger, for the wrinkles of trouble and 
worry have disappeared from his brow. Love has en- 
tered into his heart, a great love for Betty. 

And now, as we look, Betty says in a thoughtful 
voice : 

“Uncle Teddy, somehow this reminds me of the 
night I came here. How little I was then, and how 
frightened at you.’’ 

“Yes,” replied the Squire, “but I did not under- 
stand you then. I do now, Betty. You aren’t 
frightened at me now, are you?” 

It was asked in a jesting tone, but the eyes looking 
into hers had a serious light in them, and Betty felt 
that the question was in earnest. 

“No,” she answered, “I’m perfectly happy now; I 
couldn’t live without you.” 

“Nor I without you,” he murmured. 

Betty hesitated a moment, then continued bravely: 
‘ ‘ But I want to ask a favor of you, and that is to for- 
give my mother for leaving you and going away with 
my father — ^not to be angry with her. She didn’t 
mean it, I know. She loved him, and she did not know 
that he was going to be a — ” Betty paused, “what he 


57 


58 


THE AWAKENING 


was. She loved you dearly through it all, and I know 
she used to cry because she had left you all alone.” 

There was a moment’s pause, then Harley said, 
huskily: “God knows I’ve forgiven her long ago! 
I’ve realized how little love I really gave her and how 
she longed for it, but Betty, deep down in my heart 
I loved her as no one else could love. But I see how 
that when she met a man who, though he never loved 
her as I did, really cared for her and showed it — ah 
Betty! I can not blame her for loving him in return! 
I was wrong not to show my love for her and it is her 
forgiveness that I want, that I need!” 

“Uncle Teddy,” said Betty gently, as she kissed 
him, “if mother were here she would forgive you now. 
But she can’t; she’s in Heaven.” 

There was a pause; then Harley said, fervently: 

“Yes, a thousand times I forgive her!” 

Outside, all was still. The world seemed to have 
ceased its busy round of life as if listening to Betty’s 
sacred words. For a long time she sat gazing thought- 
fully at the dying embers till the last bright ray of twi- 
light slipped from the evening sky and night settled 
o’er all the world; then, slipping her hand gently into 
Harley’s, she said softly: 

“But I will forgive you for her.” 

So they sat for a long time, too happy to speak, 
holding each other’s hands, until the clock warned 
them that it was their bedtime, and they parted. 


THE END. 















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